


Delirium

by DrarryMalecLover101 (orphan_account)



Series: The Delirium Series [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alec Lightwood-centric, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Based on the Delirium Series, Eventual Romance, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love is a disease, M/M, Rebel Magnus Bane, The Branwell & Lightwood families are related
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DrarryMalecLover101
Summary: Ninety-five days, and then I'll be safe. I wonder whether the procedure will hurt. I want to get it over with. It's hard to be patient. It's hard not to be afraid while I'm still uncured, though so far the deliria hasn't touched me yet. Still, I worry. They say that in the old days, love drove people to madness. The deadliest of all deadly things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't.Based off the Delirium series
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: The Delirium Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562083
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! It’s been a while since I’ve done some Malec Dystopia and caused multiple heartbreaks to everyone in the fandom. I figured it’s been far too long, so here we go again. This one’s based off the Delirium series. Warnings will be added in each Author’s Note so you guys can be safe and not worry about getting triggered. Love y’all!
> 
> Content Warning: Mentions of past successful suicide attempts.

**“The most dangerous sicknesses are those that make us believe we are well.”**

**—Proverb 42, The Book of Shhh**

It has been sixty-four years since the president and the Consortium identified love as a disease, and forty-three since the scientists perfected a cure. Everyone else in my family has had the procedure already. My older sister, Isabelle, has been disease free for nine years now.

She’s been safe from love for so long, she says she can’t even remember its symptoms. I’m scheduled to have my procedure in exactly ninety-five days, on September 3.

My birthday.

Many people are afraid of the procedure. Some people even resist. But I’m not afraid. I can’t wait. I would have it done tomorrow, if I could, but you have to be at least eighteen, sometimes a little older, before the scientists will cure you. Otherwise the procedure won’t work correctly: People end up with brain damage, partial paralysis, blindness, or worse.

I don’t like to think that I’m still walking around with the disease running through my blood. Sometimes I swear I can feel it writhing in my veins like something spoiled, like sour milk. It makes me feel dirty. It reminds me of children throwing tantrums. It reminds me of resistance, of diseased girls dragging their nails on the pavement, tearing out their hair, their mouths dripping spit.

And of course it reminds me of my mother.

After the procedure I will be happy and safe forever.

That’s what everybody says, the scientists and my sister and Aunt Lilith. I will have the procedure and then I’ll be paired with a girl the evaluators choose for me. In a few years, we’ll get married. Recently I’ve started having dreams about my wedding. In them I’m standing under a white canopy with a bouquet of flowers in my hands.

I’m holding hands with someone, but whenever I turn to look at her her face blurs, like a camera losing focus, and I can’t make out any features. But her hands are cool and dry, and my heart is beating steadily in my chest—and in my dream I know it will always beat out that same rhythm, not skip or jump or swirl or go faster, just womp, womp, womp, until I’m dead.

Safe, and free from pain.

Things weren’t always as good as they are now. In school we learned that in the old days, the dark days, people didn’t realize how deadly a disease love was. For a long time they even viewed it as a good thing, something to be celebrated and pursued. Of course that’s one of the reasons it’s so dangerous: It affects your mind so that you cannot think clearly, or make rational decisions about your own well-being. (That’s symptom number twelve, listed in the amor deliria nervosa section of the twelfth edition of The Safety, Health, and Happiness Handbook, or The Book of Shhh, as we call it.) Instead people back then named other diseases—stress, heart disease, anxiety, depression, hypertension, insomnia, bipolar disorder—never realizing that these were, in fact, only symptoms that in the majority of cases could be traced back to the effects of amor deliria nervosa.

Of course we aren’t yet totally free from the deliria in the United States. Until the procedure has been perfected, until it has been made safe for the under- eighteens, we will never be totally protected. It still moves around us with invisible, sweeping tentacles, choking us. I’ve seen countless uncureds dragged to their procedures, so racked and ravaged by love that they would rather tear their eyes out, or try to impale themselves on the barbed-wire fences outside of the laboratories, than be without it.

Several years ago on the day of her procedure, one girl managed to slip from her restraints and find her way to the laboratory roof. She dropped quickly, without screaming. For days afterward, they broadcast the image of the dead girl’s face on television to remind us of the dangers of the deliria. Her eyes were open and her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, but from the way her cheek was resting against the pavement you might otherwise think she had lain down to take a nap.

Surprisingly, there was very little blood—just a small dark trickle at the corners of her mouth.

Ninety-five days, and then I’ll be safe. I’m nervous, of course. I wonder whether the procedure will hurt. I want to get it over with. It’s hard to be patient.

It’s hard not to be afraid while I’m still uncured, though so far the deliria hasn’t touched me yet.

Still, I worry. They say that in the old days, love drove people to madness. That’s bad enough. The Book of Shhh also tells stories of those who died because of love lost or never found, which is what terrifies me the most.

The deadliest of all deadly things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Alec’s Evaluation day, and he’s desperate to make a good first impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Very brief mentions of past suicides and also funerals.

**“We must be constantly on guard against the Disease; the health of our nation, our people, our families, and our minds depends on constant vigilance.”**

**—“Basic Health Measures,” The Safety, Health, and Happiness Handbook, 12th edition**

The smell of oranges has always reminded me of funerals. On the morning of my evaluation it is the smell that wakes me up. I look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s six o’clock.

The light is gray, the sunlight just strengthening along the walls of the bedroom I share with my younger brother. Max is crouched on his twin bed, already dressed, watching me. He has a whole orange in one hand. He is trying to gnaw on it, like an apple, with his little-kid teeth. My stomach twists, and I have to close my eyes again to keep from remembering the hot, scratchy suit I was forced to wear when my mother died; to keep from remembering the murmur of voices, a large, rough hand passing me orange after orange to suck on, so I would stay quiet. At the funeral I ate four oranges, section by section, and when I was left with only a pile of peelings heaped on my lap I began to suck on those, the bitter taste of the pith helping to keep the tears away.

I open my eyes and Max leans forward, the orange cupped in his outstretched palm.

“No, Maxie.” I push off my covers and stand up. My stomach is clenching and unclenching like a fist. “And you’re not supposed to eat the peel, you know.”

He continues blinking up at me with his big blue eyes, not saying anything. I sigh and sit down next to him.

“Here,” I say, and show him how to peel the orange using his nail, unwinding bright orange curls and dropping them in his lap, the whole time trying to hold my breath against the smell. He watches me in silence. When I’m finished he holds the orange, now unpeeled, in both hands, as though it’s a glass ball and he’s worried about breaking it.

I nudge him. “Go ahead. Eat now.” He just stares at it and I sigh and begin separating the sections for him, one by one. As I do I whisper, as gently as possible, “You know, the others would be nicer to you if you would speak once in a while.”

He doesn’t respond. Not that I really expect him to. My aunt Lilith hasn’t heard him say a word in the whole six years and three months of Max’s life—not a single syllable. Lilith thinks there’s something wrong with his brain, but so far the doctors haven’t found it. “He’s as dumb as a rock,” Lilith said matter-of-factly just the other day, watching Max turn a bright-colored block over and over in his hands, as though it was beautiful and miraculous, as though he expected it to turn suddenly into something else.

I stand up and go toward the window, moving away from Max and his big, staring eyes and thin, quick fingers. I feel sorry for him.

It will be hot today, I can tell. It’s already hot in the bedroom, and when I crack the window to sweep out the smell of orange, the air outside feels as thick and heavy as a tongue. I suck in deeply, inhaling the clean smell of seaweed and damp wood, listening to the distant cries of the seagulls as they circle endlessly, somewhere beyond the low, gray, sloping buildings, over the bay. Outside, a car engine guns to life. The sound startles me, and I jump.

“Nervous about your evaluation?” I turn around. My aunt Lilith is standing in the doorway, her hands folded.

“No,” I say, though this is a lie.

She smiles, just barely, a brief, flitting thing. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Take your shower and then I’ll help you get ready. We can review your answers on the way.”

“Okay.” My aunt continues to stare at me. I squirm, digging my nails into the windowsill behind me. I’ve always hated being looked at. Of course, I’ll have to get used to it. During the exam there will be four evaluators staring at me for close to two hours. I’ll be wearing a flimsy plastic gown, semitranslucent, like the kind you get in hospitals, so that they can see my body.

“A seven or an eight, I would say,” my aunt says, puckering her lips. It’s a decent score and I’d be happy with it. “Though you won’t get more than a six if you don’t get cleaned up.”

Senior year is almost over, and the evaluation is the final test I will take. For the past four months I’ve had all my various board exams—math, science, oral and written proficiency, sociology and psychology and photography (a specialty elective)—and I should be getting my scores sometime in the next few weeks. I’m pretty sure I did well enough to get assigned to a college.

I’ve always been a decent student. The academic assessors will analyze my strengths and weaknesses, and then assign me to a school and a major.

The evaluation is the last step, so I can get paired. In the coming months the evaluators will send me a list of four or five approved matches. One of them will become my wife after I graduate college (assuming I pass all my boards. Boys who don’t pass get paired and married right out of high school). The evaluators will do their best to match me with people who received a similar score in the evaluations. As much as possible they try to avoid any huge disparities in intelligence, temperament, social background, and age. Of course you do hear occasional horror stories: cases where a poor eighteen- year-old girl is given to a wealthy eighty-year-old man.

The stairs let out their awful moaning, and my cousin, Lydia, appears. She is sixteen but tall for her age, but very thin: all angles and elbows, her chest caving in like a warped sheet pan. It’s terrible to say, but I don’t like her very much. She has the same pinched look as her mother did.

Laila, Lydia’s mother, is dead now. She always said she never wanted children in the first place. That’s one of the downsides of the procedure; in the absence of deliria nervosa, some people find parenting distasteful.

Thankfully, cases of full-blown detachment—where a mother or father is unable to bond normally, dutifully, and responsibly with his or her children, and winds up drowning them or sitting on their windpipes or beating them to death when they cry—are few.

But one was the number of children the evaluators decided on for Laila. At the time it seemed like a good choice. Her family had earned high stabilization marks in the annual review. Her husband, a scientist, was well respected. They lived in an enormous house on Winter Street. Laila cooked every meal from scratch, and taught piano lessons in her spare time, to keep busy.

But, of course, when Laila’s husband was suspected of being a sympathizer, everything changed. Laila and her child, Lydia, had to move back with Laila’s mother, my aunt Lilith, and people whispered and pointed at them everywhere they went. 

Laila’s husband disappeared before his trial could begin. It’s probably a good thing he did. The trials are mostly for show. Sympathizers are almost always executed. If not, they’re locked away in the Crypts to serve three life sentences, back-to-back. Laila knew that, of course. Aunt Lilith thinks that’s the reason her heart gave out only a few months after her husband’s disappearance, when she was indicted in his place. A day after she got served the papers she was walking down the street and—bam! Heart attack.

Hearts are fragile things. That’s why you have to be so careful.

Lydia joins my aunt in the doorway and stares at me. I am six-three and Lydia is, amazingly, just a few inches shorter than I am now. It’s silly to feel self- conscious in front of my aunt, cousin, and brother, but a hot, crawling itch begins to work its way up my arms. I know they’re all worried about my performance at the evaluation. It’s critical that I get paired with someone good. Lydia and Max are still years away from their procedures. If I marry well, in a few years it will mean extra money for the family. It might also make the whispers go away, singsong snatches that four years after the scandal still seem to follow us wherever we go, like the sound of rustling leaves carried on the wind: Sympathizer.

Sympathizer. Sympathizer.

It’s only slightly better than the other word that followed me for years after my mom’s death, a snakelike hiss, undulating, leaving its trail of poison: Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. It was only in my dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed.

I take a deep breath, then duck down to pull the plastic bin from under my bed so that my aunt won’t see I’m shaking.

“Is Alec getting married today?” Lydia asks my aunt.

Her voice has always reminded me of bees droning flatly in the heat.

“Don’t be stupid,” my aunt says, but without irritation.

“You know he can’t marry until he’s cured.”

I take my towel from the bin and straighten up. That word—marry—makes my mouth go dry. Everyone marries as soon as they are done with their education.

It’s the way things are. “Marriage is Order and Stability, the mark of a Healthy society.” (See The Book of Shhh, “Fundamentals of Society,” p. 114). But the thought of it still makes my heart flutter frantically, like an insect behind glass. I’ve never touched a girl, of course— physical contact between uncureds of opposite sex is forbidden. Honestly, I’ve never even talked to a girl for longer than five minutes, unless you count my cousins and aunt and sister.

And if I don’t pass my boards—please God, please God, let me pass them— I’ll have my wedding as soon as I’m cured, in less than three months. Which means I’ll have my wedding night.

The smell of oranges is still strong, and my stomach does another swoop. I bury my face in my towel and inhale, willing myself not to be sick.

From downstairs there is the clatter of dishes. My aunt sighs and checks her watch.

“We have to leave in less than an hour,” she says. “You’d better get moving.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost time for Alec’s evaluation. But will Jace ruin everything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter. Enjoy!

**“Lord, help us root our feet to the earth And our eyes to the road And always remember the fallen angels Who, attempting to soar, Were seared instead by the sun and, wings melting, Came crashing back to the sea.**

**Lord, help root my eyes to the earth And stay my eyes to the road So I may never stumble.”**

**—Psalm 24 (From “Prayer and Study,” The Book of Shhh)**

My aunt insists on walking me down to the laboratories, which, like all the government offices, are lumped together along the wharves: a string of bright white buildings, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean. When I was little and had just moved in with her, she used to walk me to school every day. My mother, sister, brother, and I had lived closer to the border, and I was amazed and terrified by all the winding, darkened streets, which smelled like garbage and old fish. I always wished for my aunt to hold my hand, but she never did, and I had balled my hands into fists and followed the hypnotic swish of her corduroy pants, dreading the moment that St. Peter’s Academy for Boys would rise up over the crest of the final hill, the dark stone building lined with fissures and cracks like the weather-beaten face of one of the industrial fishermen who work along the docks.

It’s amazing how things change. I’d been terrified of the streets of Portland then, and reluctant to leave my aunt’s side. Now I know them so well I could follow their dips and curves with my eyes closed, and today I want nothing more than to be alone. I can smell the ocean, though it’s concealed from view by the twisting undulations of the streets, and it relaxes me. The salt blowing off the sea makes the air feel textured and heavy.

“Remember,” she is saying for the thousandth time, “they want to know about your personality, yes, but the more generalized your answers the better chance you have of being considered for a variety of positions.” My aunt has always talked about marriage with words straight out of The Book of Shhh, words like duty, responsibility, and perseverance.

“Got it,” I say. A bus barrels past us. The crest for St. Peter’s Academy is stenciled along its side and I duck my head quickly, imagining boys staring out the dirt-encrusted windows, laughing and pointing at me. Everyone knows I am having my evaluation today. Only four are offered throughout the year, and slots are determined well in advance.

The suit Aunt Lilith made me wear makes me feel far too overdressed. 

I don’t really like dressing up. It’s never been something I’ve been interested in. My best friend, Jace, thinks I’m crazy, but of course he would. He’s absolutely gorgeous—even when he doesn’t gel back his hair into its usual style, he still looks as though he’s just had it styled. I’m not ugly, but I’m not handsome, either. Everything is in-between. I have sky blue eyes. I’m not thin, but I’m not fat, either. The only thing you could definitely say about me is this: I’m tall.

“If they ask you, God forbid, about your cousins, remember to say that you didn’t know them well. . . .”

“Uh-huh.” I’m only half listening. It’s hot, too hot for June, and sweat is pricking up already on my lower back and in my armpits, even though I slathered on deodorant this morning. To our right is Casco Bay, which is hemmed in by Peaks Island and Great Diamond Island, where the lookout towers are. Beyond that is open ocean—and beyond that, all the crumbling countries and cities ruined by the disease.

“Alec? Are you even listening to me?” Lilith puts a hand on my arm and spins me in her direction.

“Blue,” I parrot back at her. “Blue is my favorite color. Or green.” Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish.

“And the things you like to do in your free time?”

I gently slip away from her grasp. “We’ve gone over this already.”

“This is important, Alec. Possibly the most important day of your whole life.”

I sigh. Ahead of me the gates that bar the government labs swing open slowly with a mechanized whine. There is already a double line forming: on one side, the boys, and fifty feet away, at a second entrance, the girls. I squint against the sun, trying to locate people I know, but the ocean has dazzled me and my vision is clouded by floating black spots.

“Alec?” my aunt prompts me.

I take a deep breath and launch into the spiel we’ve rehearsed a billion times. “I like to work on the school paper. I’m interested in photography because I like the way it captures and preserves a single moment of time. I enjoy hanging out with my friends and attending concerts at Deering Oaks Park. I like to run and was a co-captain of the cross-country team for two years. I hold the school record in the 5K event. I often babysit the younger members of my family, and I really like children.”

“You’re making a face,” my aunt says.

“I love children,” I repeat, plastering a smile on my face.

The truth is, I don’t like very many children except for Max. They’re so bumpy and loud all the time, and they’re always grabbing things and dribbling and wetting themselves. But I know I’ll have to have children of my own someday.

“Better,” Lilith says. “Go on.” I finish, “My favorite subjects are math and history,” and she nods, satisfied.

“Alec!”

I turn around. Jace is just climbing out of his parents’ car, his blonde hair flying in wisps and waves around his face, his dress shirt untucked and wild. 

All the girls and boys lining up to enter the labs have turned to watch him. Jace has that kind of power over people.

“Alec! Wait!” Jace continues barreling down the street, waving at me frantically. Behind him, the car begins a slow revolution: back and forth, back and forth, in the narrow drive until it is facing the opposite direction.

Jace’s parents’ car is as sleek and dark as a panther.

The few times we’ve driven around in it together I’ve felt like a prince. Hardly anyone has cars anymore, and even fewer have cars that actually drive. Oil is strictly rationed and extremely expensive. Some middle-class people keep cars mounted in front of their houses like statues, frigid and unused, the tires spotless and unworn.

“Hi, Lilith,” Jace says breathlessly, catching up to us. A magazine pops out of his half-open backpack, and he stoops to retrieve it. It’s one of the government publications, Home and Family, and in response to my raised eyebrows he makes a face. “Mom made me bring it. She said I should read it while I’m waiting for my evaluation. She said it will give the right impression.” Jace sticks his finger down his throat and mimes gagging.

“Jace,” my aunt whispers fiercely. The anxiety in her voice makes my heart skip. Lilith hardly ever loses her temper, even for a minute. She whips her head in both directions, as though expecting to find regulators or evaluators lurking in the bright morning street.

“Don’t worry. They’re not spying on us.” Jace turns his back to my aunt and mouths to me, yet. Then he grins.

In front of us, the double line of girls and boys is growing longer, extending into the street, even as the glass- fronted doors of the labs swoosh open and several nurses appear, carrying clipboards, and begin to usher people into the waiting rooms. My aunt rests one hand on my elbow lightly, quick as a bird.

“You’d better get on line,” she says. Her voice is back to normal. I wish some of her calmness would rub off on me. “And Alec?”

“Yeah?” I don’t feel very well. The labs look far away, so white I can hardly stand to look at them, the pavement shimmering hot in front of us. The words most important day of your life keep repeating in my head.

The sun feels like a giant spotlight.

“Good luck.” My aunt does her one-millisecond smile.

“Thanks.” I kind of wish Lilith would say something else—something like, I’m sure you’ll do great, or Try not to worry—but she just stands there, blinking, her face composed and unreadable as always.

“Don’t worry, Lilith.” Jace winks at me. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t screw up too badly. Promise.”

All my nervousness dissipates. Jace is so relaxed about the whole thing, so nonchalant and normal.

Jace and I go down toward the labs together. I’m glad he’s with me. I’d be a complete wreck otherwise.

“God,” he says, as we get close to the lines. “Your aunt takes this whole thing pretty seriously, huh?”

“Well, it is serious.” We join the back of the line. I see a few people I recognize: some guys I know vaguely from school; some girls I’ve seen playing soccer behind St Anne’s, one of the girls’ schools. A girl looks my way and sees me staring. She raises her eyebrows and I drop my eyes quickly, my face going hot all at once and a nervous itch working in my stomach. You’ll be paired in less than three months, I tell myself, but the words don’t mean anything and seem ridiculous, like one of the Mad Libs games we played as children that always resulted in nonsensical statements: I want banana for speedboat. Give my wet shoe to your blistering cupcake.

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I’ve read The Book of Shhh as much as anyone.” Jace pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead and bats his eyelashes at me, making his voice supersweet: “‘Evaluation Day is the exciting rite of passage that prepares you for a future of happiness, stability, and partnership.’” He drops his sunglasses back down on his nose and makes a face.

“You don’t believe it?” I lower my voice to a whisper.

Jace has been strange recently. He was always different from other people—more outspoken, more independent, more fearless. It’s one of the reasons I first wanted to be his friend. I’ve always been shy, and afraid that I’ll say or do the wrong thing. Jace is the opposite.

But lately it’s been more than that. He’s stopped caring about school, for one thing, and has been called to the principal’s office several times for talking back to the teachers. And sometimes in the middle of talking he’ll stop, just shut his mouth as though he’s run up against a barrier. Other times I’ll catch him staring out at the ocean as though he’s thinking of swimming away.

Looking at him now, at his hazel eyes and his mouth as thin and taut as a bowstring, I feel a tug of fear. I think of my mother floundering for a second in the air before dropping like a stone into the ocean; I think about the face of the girl who dropped from the laboratory roof all those years ago, her cheek turned against the pavement. I will away thoughts of the illness. Jace isn’t sick. He can’t be. I would know.

“If they really want us to be happy, they’d let us pick ourselves,” Jace grumbles.

“Jace,” I say sharply. Criticizing the system is the worst offense there is. “Take it back.”

He holds up his hands. “All right, all right. I take it back.”

“You know it doesn’t work. Look how it was in the old days. Chaos all the time, fighting, and war. People were miserable.”

“I said, I take it back.” He smiles at me, but I’m still mad and I look away.

“Besides,” I go on, “they do give us a choice.”

Usually the evaluators generate a list of four or five approved matches, and you are allowed to pick among them. This way, everyone is happy. In all the years that the procedure has been administered and the marriages arranged, there have been fewer than a dozen divorces in Maine, less than a thousand in the entire United States—and in almost all those cases, either the husband or wife was suspected of being a sympathizer and divorce was necessary and approved by the state.

“A limited choice,” he corrects me. “We get to choose from the people who have been chosen for us.”

“Every choice is limited,” I snap. “That’s life.”

He opens his mouth as though he’s going to respond, but instead he just starts to laugh. Then he reaches down and squeezes my hand, two quick pumps and then two long ones. It’s our old sign, a habit we developed in the second grade when one of us was scared or upset, a way of saying, I’m here, don’t worry.

“Okay, okay. Don’t get defensive. I love the evaluations, okay? Long live Evaluation Day.”

“That’s better,” I say, but I’m still feeling anxious and annoyed. The line shuffles slowly forward. We pass the iron gates, with their complicated crown of barbed wire, and enter the long driveway that leads to the various lab complexes. We are headed for Building 6-C. The girls go to 6-B, and the lines begin to curve away from each other.

As we move closer to the front of the line, we get a blast of air-conditioning every time the glass doors slide open and then hum shut. It feels amazing, like being momentarily dipped head to toe in a thin sheet of ice, popsicle-style, and I wish it weren’t so damn hot. We don’t have air-conditioning at home, just tall, gawky fans that are always sputtering out in the middle of the night. And most of the time Lilith won’t even let us use those; they suck up too much electricity, she says, and we don’t have any to spare.

At last there are only a few people in front of us. A nurse comes out of the building, carrying a stack of clipboards and a handful of pens, and begins distributing them along the line.

“Please make sure to fill out all required information,” she says, “including your medical and family history.”

My heart begins to work its way up into my throat. The neatly numbered boxes on the page—Last Name, First Name, Middle Initial, Current Address, Age—collapse together. I’m glad Jace is in front of me. He begins filling out the forms quickly, resting the clipboard on his forearm, his pen skating over the paper.

“Next.”

The doors whoosh open again, and a second nurse appears and gestures for Jace to come inside. In the dark coolness beyond him, I can see a bright white waiting room with a green carpet.

“Good luck,” I say to Jace.

He turns and gives me a quick smile. But I can tell he is nervous, finally. There is a fine crease between his eyebrows, and he is chewing on the corner of his lip.

He starts to enter the lab and then turns abruptly and walks back to me, his face wild and unfamiliar-looking, grabbing me with both shoulders, putting his mouth directly to my ear. I’m so startled I drop my clipboard.

“You know you can’t be happy unless you’re unhappy sometimes, right?” He whispers, and his voice is hoarse, as though he’s just been crying.

“What?” His nails are digging into my shoulders, and at that moment I’m terrified of him.

“You can’t be really happy unless you’re unhappy sometimes. You know that, right?”

Before I can respond he releases me, and as he pulls away, his face is as serene and handsome and composed as ever. He bends down to scoop up my clipboard, which he passes to me, smiling. Then he turns around and is gone behind the glass doors, which open and close behind him as smoothly as the surface of water, sucking closed over something that is sinking.


End file.
